Happy Birthday, Remus
by Bottlebrush
Summary: On his next birthday after Sirius's death, Remus Lupin is visited by an owl, a phoenix, and a mysterious winged messenger from.....where?


Title: Happy Birthday, Remus

Rating: K

Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter world or its characters. J. K. Rowling does.

Summary: On Remus Lupin's next birthday after Sirius died, three birds visit him: an owl, a phoenix, and a mysterious invisible messenger from……where?

Remus Lupin didn't even remember it was his birthday, when he awoke that morning. It wasn't until he had washed and dressed and was about to go downstairs that he noticed the flower in the mug was fading; its brilliant red colour was paler, and one petal had fallen on to the shelf. Then he remembered.

Sirius Black had given him that flower on his birthday, one year before. He had refused to say where he had got it; with a teasing smile he had insisted he had "created it out of air and love", and had charmed it to live for exactly one year. It looked as though the last part at least was true. Well, it could stay where it was for now.

He thought about breakfast. He didn't want it – he could scarcely remember when he had last wanted _anything_ – but it was important to have a routine and to stick to it. Deviate from it in any particular, and there was no knowing where he might end up.

He had almost decided to go down to the kitchen, when there was a tapping at the bedroom window. He opened it to let in Morag, his mother's owl, who dropped a package and a letter on the bed. He opened the letter first.

"Before you chide me for my extravagance, as I know you will, let me tell you my good news. I sold one of my patchworks! Fripperies Emporium, the gift shop in Diagon Alley, gave me 75 Galleons for it, and say they'll take any more I can produce. It seems there is a fad among the wealthy wizard families, for crafts made by Muggle methods. So you can imagine me stitching away……I must tread a fine line between taking advantage of this craze while it lasts, and not lowering the price by flooding the market. Already I am considering what to do when the fashion for patchwork dies. Perhaps I should get out my old potter's wheel. Well, that's enough about my enterprises. Should I wish you a happy birthday? I fear that there will be no true happiness for you in this world again. But believe me, a small harmless pleasure is no disrespect to the memory you hold dear, and to that end I attach this gift. Eat and enjoy."

The package contained a box of very expensive Belgian chocolate truffles. She really shouldn't have spent so much money on him. Morag was looking at him with her head on one side, as if questioning. _Yes,_ he told her. _Wait._

Downstairs, in the large gloomy kitchen, he found parchment and quill and wrote his mother a letter, the length of which he hoped would compensate for his neglect of her in the past months.

As Morag flew away, another bird arrived. This was no owl, but a magnificent red and gold creature which carried neither letter nor parcel, but when the window was opened flew in and circled around his head singing. He stood enchanted by the phoenix song, which seemed to go on for hours, and which pierced his soul with its strangeness and beauty. It brought wordless messages from other worlds and other times; messages of encouragement and consolation, at the same time bracing and calming. It did not take away his pain, but it increased his strength to endure it. It reminded him he had won through the depth of sorrow before, and would again. The song ended, and the phoenix perched on the back of a chair, looking at him.

"Thank you, Fawkes," Remus said. "And thank Albus for me, will you?"

Fawkes looked him in the eye for a moment, then flew out through the window.

Back in the kitchen, Remus put together a meal of a bagel and cream cheese, and black coffee. Afterwards, he ate one of his mother's chocolates. He felt something almost like peace. There was work to be done; a report to write about his contact with a small group of feral werewolves he had discovered living in a farmhouse on the edge of Epping Forest. But he did not choose to work today. It was his birthday. The report could wait. The afternoon would be spent in small harmless pleasure. He took from its shelf a book he had bought a year before: the Collected Poems of Charles Causley. At first he had been too busy for it, then he had not had the heart to read poetry. Today, he would read, and eat chocolate, and be free.

A few hours later, he noticed a movement at the window, a fluttering as if of wings, but no bird was visible. It was as though the air were in motion, not as an aimless breeze, but purposefully. He opened the window for the third time that day. Something flew in; a bird, yes, there were wings, audible, but seen only as movement of the window frame, the wall, the chair. He was reminded of Magritte's paintings of birds made of sky. The ethereal bird landed on the bed for a moment, then with a flurry of unseen wings it took off again, leaving behind a flower. A rose, its bright red petals edged with gold; a proud Gryffindor rose, the image of the one Sirius had given him on his 36th birthday. He picked it up, half surprised to find it was tangible, and carried it to the mug on the shelf. Last year's rose was now pink, yellow-edged, and all its petals had fallen. He gathered them up carefully and placed them between the pages of his book of poems, and put the new flower in its place. Sirius had said that when the first rose faded, he would give Remus another. Could it be……? But how else……?

Downstairs, there was a disturbance; Mrs Black was screaming. Remus had considered disposing of her, but when it came to it, he could not; she was Sirius's _mother_, she had _made_ him, Remus could not suppress a feeling of gratitude, of love almost, that prevented him from harming the portrait. It did not, however, prevent him from perfecting an advanced silencing charm of which few wizards would have been capable. He employed it now, stopping her in mid-scream, and opened the door to admit Kingsley, Bill, Tonks and Hestia.

They showered him with cards and small gifts; Kingsley dragged cauldrons of vegetable curry and rice, while Bill produced grapefruit juice (because, as all wizards know, grapefruit juice is the best thing to drink with curry) and bottles of Hock to accompany Tonks's bucket of fresh ripe strawberries – _wherever did she find them, at this time of year?_ – and Hestia's pitcher of cream. Remus placed the rose in the centre of the table.

"I have to warn you of impending invasion," Bill said. "The kids are coming to see you on Saturday. Hagrid and Minerva are bringing them."

"Happy Birthday, Remus," said the four, raising goblets of grapefruit juice.

Remus blinked in embarrassment. "You know, I rather think it is," he said.


End file.
